


Hovering

by locktobre



Category: Barbie - All Media Types, Barbie: Star Light Adventure
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 11:19:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12530144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locktobre/pseuds/locktobre
Summary: There is no trace of Constantine in her that he can see; no one will ever suspect.What if King Constantine was Sal-Lee's father...[I haven't watched the movie in a few months, so consider this a bit broad strokes. I may go back and fix it later.]





	Hovering

King Constantine _loves_ hover-boarding. It is the one indulgence he allows himself, as he reasons that everyone should have a hobby. He follows the sport avidly, enviously; what he wouldn’t _give_ for that balance, that grace he has lacked ever since he hit puberty and sprouted up, gaining ungainly height and limbs he can’t quite control no matter how precisely he tries to move.

Kings are rarely given breaks. Constantine rarely even wants one, but there is one day a year he allows himself a respite: The day of the galactic finals. It’s a tradition that dates back to his days as a young prince. He blocks out the whole day, and watches each age group perform, from the elementary ages who are just getting a hang of their boards to the sponsored pro athletes. Afterward, he invites the winners of each age group to his palace for a winner’s circle dinner. He is nervous around children, but they deserve to meet their idols, and he is in a position to arrange that. He admits that it brings him a certain satisfaction to see their young faces light up in joy and awe when they see their towering heroes sitting just across the table. They remind him of his younger self.

Those who win often become his friends. Distantly, of course; he is a king, and aside from this one day a year, he often doesn’t have the time to keep up correspondence. Verba-Lee of Upper Plope is one such friend. She has just won her fifth championship, and she is glowing. If she wins next year, it will be an unprecedented winning streak. She says that the palace is beginning to feel like home, now that she has visited so many times. Constantine gives her an indulgent smile, and she winks at him over her wineglass.

He puzzles over that for the rest of the meal. Every time he catches her eye, she raises an eyebrow, and he feels heat in his cheeks. She can’t possibly be... _flirting_ ? With _him_? With a king? Perhaps she is just being friendly. He studies her expression, watching as she interacts with the rest of the winner’s circle. She catches him looking, and gives him a secretive sort of grin; he feels flames on his face.

The winner’s circle dwindles as the night wears on, athletes of all ages bidding the king a polite goodbye as they depart, until only Constantine and Verba remain.

“It’s quite late...” Constantine says, and it’s true; it’s nearly midnight. He feels the weight of the next day on him already, his time of indulgence having slipped away with the sunlight.

“Would you like to take a walk?” Verba asks, and she sounds shy, so different from the vivacious attitude she has in the air.

“...Yes,” he says, and there’s no mistaking that, is there?

He offers her his arm as they enter the cool night air of the gardens. She takes it, leaning on him easily. Her head barely reaches his shoulder. He feels like a giant, looming over her. His mind is racing, thinking of his rather disastrous teenage attempts at dating. He has no idea what to do.

“Why don’t you ever write to us?” she asks. “The winner’s circle, I mean. You don’t _have_ to throw us a dinner party, but you do it, every year... But then you don’t talk to us after, except to wish us luck at the next games...”

“I don’t have time,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. This is the one day I take for myself...” He has never said it out loud before. He has always told others that he was simply showing support for popular culture, that it was good for the athlete’s morale to know the king was watching. He swallows the feeling that he is telling her something shameful, and presses on: “The rest of my time is dedicated to running the kingdom.”

“So you never get to have fun?”

He wants to shrug, but a king doesn’t shrug. “I often hold galas.”

“Then you know how to dance?” She unwinds her arm from his, and holds out her hand.

“There’s no music—” he protests.

He feels the weight of his sprawling, awkward limbs as she takes his hands and puts them on her waist. She wraps her arms around him, resting her head on his chest, and they sway to the quickening beat of the king’s heart. The stars twinkle above them, and he watches one wink out.

What is he _doing_ , standing here and wasting time like this? There’s so much work to do! The stars are _dying_ , and he’s supposed to be the one to save them...

He clears his throat, ready to tell Verba a firm good night, but when she looks up at him, he can’t bring himself to be harsh with her. He inhales, readying gentler words, and that’s when she kisses him, standing on tiptoe and throwing her arms around his neck to bend him down to her height.

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur.

Verba slips out of his room at dawn, leaving him a note on his holo-screen: _I'll see you at the winner’s circle._

* * *

Constantine can’t bring himself to delete the message, even though it is a reminder of the most inappropriate thing he had ever done. He buries it, several folders deep in his personal files, and thinks of it often.

When Verba misses the semi-finals due to illness, he sends a message wishing her a speedy recovery and lamenting that she will be unable to take home her sixth win and create a new record. Her response is curt, perfunctory. He doesn’t try to continue their correspondence.

When the rumor mill churns out the idea that Verba is pregnant, the father someone she’d met on tour, Constantine is perturbed. Surely...? No. She was popular and gregarious. It could be any of a dozen men—not to cast aspersions on her character, mind. He had no idea what her personal life was like. She was very private, and kept out of the tabloids as much as possible.

When news reaches his ears that Verba has given birth, he does the math. He sends her a new message, wishing her and her child well. She doesn’t respond, and he reasons that she is busy being a new mother. He tries not to dwell on the child’s name. _Sal-Lee_.

The galactic finals come around again, and he hopes to see her in the stands. She isn’t there, and the winner’s circle feels empty without her.

* * *

 Spring training begins, and Verba begins to train again. She has kept her daughter out of the public eye, but the paparazzi managed to get one photo of the baby. It’s blurry, taken from far away as Verba was passing a window. It feels like a complete invasion of privacy just to look at it, but he can’t help himself. He stares at it for hours, wondering.

Verba passes easily through the semi-finals, and the announcers joke that they can’t believe she had a baby just a few months ago. Constantine can’t believe it either.

At the finals, he deliberately seeks her out. Normally, he would just go to the tent where all the athletes wait their turn, and give a general “Good luck.” But he has to see her. He has to know...?

“No,” she says, when she sees him coming. She turns away, polishing her board. “Please.”

“Verba...?” he says helplessly, in an undertone so that those passing will not hear him.

“I’ll see you at the winner’s circle,” she says softly.

“Good luck,” he says earnestly.

“I don’t need luck,” she says, and she turns back to him. She puts her hand on his cheek for the barest moment, and then she hefts her board under her arm and walks out.

He leaves and goes to his box in the stands, but he does not watch the games. He watches her, and follows her eyes when she waves at a different part of the stands. There’s a woman there, holding a small baby in her lap. The woman waves the baby’s arm at her mother. Verba senses him looking and gives him a brief glance before turning firmly back to watch the games.

Constantine stands up when Verba wins her race, clapping and cheering harder than he remembered doing since his first time watching the games.

At the winner’s circle, Verba sits far away from him, and when he catches her eye, she gives him a little shake of her head. _Not yet,_ she mouths, inclining her head to the rest of the guests. He waits impatiently for the end of the meal, but tries to remain polite and courteous to his guests.

The night drags on, and finally, eventually, Constantine and Verba are alone.

“Yes,” Verba says immediately, without preamble, as soon as the heavy door slams shut. “She is your daughter.”

He had been wondering for over a year, and still it was a shock to hear those words spoken aloud.

“Verba... Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” He tries not to be angry. He _isn’t_ angry. He’s _confused_ . He had hoped against hope that she had not told him because he _wasn’t_ Sal-Lee’s father, that it had been someone she met right after him, that she had been pregnant the night they spent together, _something_. “We could have—”

“Could have what? Gotten married? I don’t want to be a princess, Constantine. I _don’t_ . The politics, the games people play with each other, that’s not the life I want. The only games I want to play are on a hover-board.” She stands up, and he thinks that she is going to leave, but she walks down the table and sits in the chair next to him. She takes his hand in hers. “And... I didn’t know how you would react, to be honest. If you would want to marry me and play house, or if you would want me not to have the baby, or what. I mean, _I_ didn’t even know if I wanted the baby. I wanted my sixth championship... but I wanted her, too. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made.”

Constantine nods. His mind feels empty, Verba’s words reverberating in his skull.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your messages. I was afraid if I told you that she was yours, I would, I dunno, disappear?”

“Disappear?” he repeats uncertainly.

She laughs to herself. “It’s silly, right? But I mean... has anyone ever told you you’re kind of intimidating? I mean, you’ve nailed the ‘menacing king’ vibe.”

“I don’t want to menace _you_ ,” he says earnestly, leaning forward and putting his hand on hers.

“I know. But I had all these pregnancy hormones swirling in my brain, it was easy to get wound up.” She shakes her head, and then her expression is pensive. “I want you to meet her... She’s the grumpiest baby I’ve ever seen, but I can already tell she’s got a good heart. Like you.” She puts her hand on his chest. “But I don’t know a way for you to meet her without raising questions we don’t want to answer... I don’t want to make your life more difficult.”

His heart feels as if it is in a vise. “Perhaps next year... you can bring her to the winner’s circle.” He isn’t sure he can wait a year. He has no idea how to even hold a baby, much less what to do with one, but he’s her _father_! He’s supposed to know! Perhaps there was a holo-book on the subject he could read...

“We’ll think of something.” She takes her hand from his chest, and lays it on his cheek. “I’m so sorry, Constantine. But if it’s too complicated... Well, we don’t need anything from you. You don’t have to worry. I’ve got plenty of money from my endorsements, and I’m not going to stop racing. Well, not until she’s old enough to board, and if she wants to, I’ll retire and coach her. I think I can get in five more wins before then.” She winks at him.

“I’m sure you can,” he says distantly. He is trying to think of some event to hold that would necessitate the invitation of non-nobility, something appropriate to bring a baby to so she wouldn’t seem out of place. What do children like? Loud noises, messes, bright colors...

“It’s getting late,” Verba says, and she stands, pulling her hand from his. She bends down and kisses forehead, then runs a hand through his hair. “I miss you. But...”

“This is not the life you want.” He nods. He himself has days, however few and far between, where he is not sure he would choose to be a king, if given the option.

“I don’t regret the night we had together,” she says fiercely. “Whatever happens, I don’t regret it, and I wouldn’t trade it or Sal-Lee for anything.” She presses another kiss to his hairline, and slips out of the room.

Constantine walks to his room alone, lost in thought.

* * *

 In the morning, he has decided: He will open a zoo.

He has a certain fondness for exotic animals, and one of the tasks his council was harping about recently was their conservation. It is a distant second thought to hover-boarding, but it is now at the forefront of his mind, strangely entangled.

Constantine presents the idea to his council and they approve it immediately. The council begins to send out scouts to find rare specimens for the king’s prized private collection, and they begin hiring architects, botanists, zoologists, and zookeepers. Constantine smiles to himself and plans an opening-day celebration that includes all of the past and present members of the winner’s circle, as well as the usual nobility, and makes sure to include that guests are welcome to bring their families. It will take nearly a year to complete, but after that, he can see Sal-Lee whenever he wishes, on the pretext of visiting the animals...

Verba sends him a message with a crystal-clear photo of Sal-Lee, and he can’t stop staring at it.

* * *

The zoo opens with a great celebration. The first day is reserved for invited guests; after that it will open to the public. He doesn’t care much about the day after.

He greets everyone with vigor, so that Verba will not stand out when he gets to her.

As the guests swarm about, oohing and aahing over the animals, she stands alone near the gate, holding Sal-Lee. She grins as he approaches, and she holds the baby out to him.

He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender, trying to decline. There were, in fact, a countless number of holo-books on parenting, many of them talking about how to hold a baby, but he still wasn’t sure. What if his feckless limbs decided to _drop_ her? Verba was lightning fast, both on and off the field, but could she catch her in time? And wouldn’t someone wonder why he was holding a baby? Would others want him to hold their babies strange babies to whom he had no attachment?

“Here,” she says, arranging his hands even as she put Sal-Lee into them.

He cradles his daughter, and she looks up at him. She touches the lights on his shirt with a look of fascination, babbling something that almost sounds coherent. She’s so big already, he can hardly believe it. She is like her mother in miniature: the same deep brown skin, the same tight purple curls, the same violet eyes. There is no trace of Constantine in her that he can see; no one will ever suspect.

Sal-Lee grows bored with the lights, and reaches toward her mother with a whine. Constantine surrenders her willingly, and Verba settles the baby on her hip. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He nods. “You may visit here any time you like...” he says, hushed. He hopes she understands. He did all of this for her. For them.

“We’ll visit as often as we can. Every few months, maybe? It’s a bit far for a weekly jaunt... And you’re so busy, how often will you even be down here?”

“I will... make an effort. You are always welcome in my kingdom,” he says, and then someone behind him demands his attention, and he has to turn away and attend to those he has not yet greeted. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Verba and Sal-Lee walk over to the camelopards and wave.

* * *

 True to her word, Verba takes home her sixth consecutive championship, and then she retires to coach Sal-Lee. Verba is one of the most decorated hover-board champions in the history of the sport, with eleven wins under her belt, and her so-called “gap year” is oft lamented. Gossipers wonder what she could have accomplished if she had not been so foolish as to go and have a baby. When confronted with this, Verba scoffs. If she had hit her sixth win back then, she would have retired on a high note; it was only that desire that kept her competing long after her fellows had left the sport.

It is around this time that Sal-Lee begins to tire of visiting the zoo. She is interested in hover-boarding and little else. She humors her mother, but she doesn’t understand why the king is always there and why he greets her so warmly, every single time.

Sal-Lee is often in the winner’s circle, and the king seems to pay her extra attention. It is during one of these dinners that she realizes that she was born nine months after the championships.

* * *

When Sal-Lee is ten, she visits the zoo alone for the first time. She sees the king there, just as she expected. She does not expect him to look so nervous. She wonders if it is because she came alone, but she does not want her mother to hover around her during this conversation. She’s ten now. She is grown up.

“Can I talk to you?” Sal-Lee says in a clear, but low, voice.

The king looks alarmed, and nods as she leads him a ways away. They stand near the camelopards, a less popular attraction, and Sal-Lee squares her shoulders.

“Has someone hurt you?” the king asks, and there’s a note of panic there she didn’t expect. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Sal-Lee draws herself up to her full height. The king looms over her, and she suddenly feels very small and not grown-up at all. “I just want you to know that I know.”

“I’m sorry?” he says, and he leans down, turning his head slightly toward her.

She leans forward, and says right in his ear: “I _know_.”

“What is it that you know?” he says, and his expression is hard and unreadable.

“I know you’re my...” She trails off and gives him a meaningful look. “I _know_. Momma didn’t tell me, but I can do math, you know. And you’re not exactly subtle, are you? You always give me this weird look!”

He straightens up, and his fists are clenched. Sal-Lee balls up her own fists, but when she looks up at him, he looks afraid. “Sal-Lee—”

“I’m not gonna say anything. Momma was right, I don’t need a dad for money or anything. And if I tell anybody, they’ll just think that I’m not a good hover-boarder and that you rigged the races for me. They might think you did it for momma too! People are _mean_! They’re already mean about me having no dad.” Sal-Lee shakes her head, her curls bouncing. “I just thought you should know, that I know. So we all know now. It doesn’t have to be a stupid secret except from everybody else.”

The king leans down, his hands on his knees. “I know you... don’t need a—father,” he says, and the word seems to catch in his throat. “But if you ever need anything, anything at all, you simply have to ask.”

“I don’t need anything except my momma and my hover-board,” she says indignantly. “You stay away. Just leave us alone. You’re only gonna mess everything up if people know about you.” She stalked out of the zoo.

_That’s funny,_ the king thinks, bemused. _People might say the same about you._

* * *

 Sal-Lee becomes the first and only winner to turn down her place at the winner’s circle.

Gossip runs rampant, speculating about what must have happened between the girl and the king, until Verba releases a statement that says that Sal-Lee simply didn’t feel well after a tough race.

After that, Sal-Lee is always in attendance, but she rarely speaks to the king, and he tries to ignore her in turn.

* * *

When it occurs to Constantine to try hover-boarding inside the Central Planet, he nearly falls over. He can’t believe the simple elegance of the idea, after generations of travelers trying single-man crafts, drones, robots, each trying to be sleeker and more shock-resistant. Hover-boarding is a respected sport, but outside of the arena, it’s something children do for fun. But how to get the boarders through the electric field...

He settles on finding a pair of Tagrans. He has seen several trick races where riders rode two to a board; now, he would be counting on it. They would need to be small to fit, so perhaps it would be better if they were younger...

He gives his council his list of requirements: One pilot, two Tagrans with symmetrical gravity and anti-gravity powers, and two hover-boarders. He includes a list of the best hover-boarders in the galaxy, and is thrilled to see that Sal-Lee was chosen. He isn’t surprised, of course. She’s as good as her mother, perhaps better. None of his awkwardness, no trace of him in her face or her smile or the way she carried herself. He isn’t a part of her life. He is simply hovering.

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a headcanon post on my blog, but then it kind of spiraled. And then I lost steam at the end so it ends on a lame note, but maybe I'll go back and fix it someday. Who knows! This is why you don't write fic at 1 am lol


End file.
